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ATHENS; 



AND 



OTHER POEMS 



Sweet fount of Castalie^ and ye beside^ 
Immortal streams ! thatjlow with tuneful lapse 
The Muses'' bowers among, why were ye lock'd 
From me ? 



BY THE ADTHOR OP 



y 



Wxt Hutns of JIaestum- .^^ 






SALEM: 
GUSHING AND APPLETON. 

1824. 



A 






rrs 



PRINTED BY JOHN D. CUSHING, SALEM, MASS. 
JANUARY, 1824. 



ATHENS; 

" Cold, Athens! is the heart that looks on thee^ 
" Mr feels as lovers o^r the dust they lov'd.^^ 

Byron's Childe Harokt 



ATHENS. 



Lo ! here, upon the sacred hill* where sleeps 
The great Musseus, bard of old renown'd — 
Lo ! here, amid The City's bounds, I stand.' 
How swells the varied landscape on the eye ! 
How glows the extended, verdant plain beneath! 
How rural all, and pastoral, the scene ! 
Alas ! I dream ; 'tis mere illusion this. 
Mere mockery all ! else from this giddy height 
The imperfect vision palters with the sense. 
Yet why this throbbing pulse, this burning brain, 
This more than Pythian rage within my breast ? — 
O Heaven! 'tis now, bright Truth, thy potent sway. 
And all the enchantment of the place, I feel : 
The mist of errour fast dissolves away, 
And one broad blaze of light enwraps the world. 
Mountains and hills and vales, and isles that gem 
The distant main, now desolate indeed, 
And sunk inglorious 'neath the oppressor's sway. 

* The Musseum hill. 



Yet subject once, proud Attica, to thee. 

Burst on the mournful view. Prospect sublime ! 

And lovely as sublime ! though only such 

To him, who through the lengthen'd vista views 

With gaze intent, as backward he reverts 

The mental eye 'mid long revolving years, 

Thy glories, Athens, and thy various fate. 

But who, 'mong scenes resplendent in the page 

Of the Historic Muse, shall with bold hand 

Pourtray the wondrous change ; depict severe 

The mournful triumphs of unsparing Time, 

Or ravages of man more ruthless still ; 

And over all the halo warm diffuse 

Of centuries elaps'd ? And, hardier still, 

Who with Promethean skill may now awake, 

Though but for one short hour, the glorious spirits 

Of elder time, and animate, (how vain !) 

The scenes once trodden by their hallowed feet ? 

And is it thee, O Athens, I behold ? 
Thee, Athens, mistress of the land and main ! 
Thee, mother of philosophy, and nurse 
Of arts divine ! How sad is thy reverse ! 
Where now of towering altitude thy walls ? 
Say, where thy temples, fit abodes for gods 



Themselves, and built for immortality f 
Where now the porticoes of Parian stone, 
That lin'd thy streets interminable ? where 
The bright, ethereal forms, whose archetypes 
In heaven alone are found, or in the dreams 
Of favour'd genius seen ? And where, ah ! where, 
Thy heroes, patriots, sages, bards divine ? 
Alas ! these in their urns are shrunk, and those. 
Like visions of the night, dissolv'd in air ! 
For here, assisted by immortal hands. 
Here, Athens, restless toil'd thy sturdier sons : 
To them the isles their precious stores resign'd ; 
Seas constant groan'd beneath the freighted mass, 
And echoing hills within thy wild domain 
(Witness Pentelicus, embowell'd deep. 
That still above the clouds protrudes his head) 
Resounded with the ponderous hammer's stroke ? 
Yet now from all the congregated weight, 
That labouring ages had pil'd up, releas'd. 
Behold, once more to Ceres' gentler sway 
Restor'd, expands the beauteous plain below ! 

Yet all, lov'd Athens, is not chang'd ; thy streams, 
Thy hills, remain. Look ! where the eternal rock, 
Yclep'd Cecropia, citadel renown'd, 



With front of adamant still awes the plain ; 
And bears aloft its fane majestic,* great, 
Though in decay, and sinking fast beneath 
The incumbent weight of twice a thousand years. 
Look where Hymettus lifts his ampler brow — 
Hymettus, odorous still with balmy thyme, 
And yielding still his fam'd mellifluous stores : 
See too, where, lost amid the vale, extends 
His flow'ry base, see where Ilissus glides. 
Murmuring the Muses' early haunts among, 
Though scarce a Naiad now may fill her urn 
At his lov'd source. And, as thine eager eye 
Looks westward, mark that length'ning verdant line 
Which stretches toward the port; there, underneath 
The olive shade, the peace-devoted tree 
Infix'd by goddess-hands, Cephissus winds 
His devious course, enamour'd still, as erst. 
In dark sequester'd solitudes to roam ; 
There too the groves of Academus rose — 
And there, won by a mortal's voice divine, 
Philosophy came down to charm the ears 
Of listening men, and teach the way to Heaven ! 

Immortal streams ! on your lov'd banks repos'd. 
And still at dewy eve or morn, shadowy 

* The Parthenon. 



Are seen, with pensive looks, light moving o'er 

The plain, the forms of godlike men. There first, 

Encircled by a band illustrious, see 

Socrates ! born of earth, like all below. 

But of a soul attemper'd to divine. 

Next him, in converse sweet, behold the Man 

Upon whose honied lips Persuasion hung ; 

And whose deep mind, piercing the mist which here 

Dark errour raises, in dull matter saw 

A soul ethereal, Heaven-deriv'd ! and which 

To Heaven, anon, is destin'd to return. 

With these conjoin'd, a loftier form observe. 

Whose brows o'ershaded deep with nodding plumes, 

And breast in armour cas'd, in contrast strange 

Appears. O Xenophon ! those trappings gone. 

Which well became thee on Cunaxa's field. 

Thou to lov'd Scillus' shades wast wont to hie. 

And studious there with calm philosophy, 

Delighted'st to repose. Apart from these. 

Yet by the master eyed with fond regard. 

See Alcibiades, of noble port. 

And of a spirit restless ; seeking now 

In pleasure's flowery lap to waste the hours. 

And now, with contrite tears, to wash away 

2 



10 

His guilt. Thou strange epitome of man ! 

Had virtue then, e'en when in charms divine 

Array'd, no true delight for thee ? But lo ! 

Where near Ilissus' marge, the Stagirite 

With wrinkled front, amid the increasing throng 

That press around, his path untir'd pursues ; 

His was the art to fathom nature's depths, 

Of matter to detect the various forms, 

And from its hidden agency educe 

The truth : yet truth, eluding still his search. 

He found not. With a chosen few retir'd. 

Behold in mood contemplative, not far 

Beyond, the patriot and the sage ! who sought 

Not the applause of foolish man, but who 

For Heaven-bom virtue was surnam'd the Just : 

And not remote from them, those forms august 

Whose brows with laurel wreath'd, and ardent eyes 

Uprais'd to Heaven, seem in high thought engag'd. 

To them the Tragic Muse first deign'd to impart 

Her soul-subduing spirit — them first taught 

With touch Ithuriel, to unlock the springs 

Of human action — waking now the soul 

To noblest deeds, and firing now to acts 

Of dark revenge. Yet thine, Euripides ! 



11 

Thine was the dearest boast ; from iron hearts 
To force the drops of pity — from the foe 
Compassion — and from the sad captive, tears 
Of gratitude and joy !^ But who shall count 
The sparkling lights which glitter in the heavens ? 
Who tell what names illustrious once adorn'd 
This glorious seat of wisdom and of art ? 

On that fam'd hill* scarce elevate the plain 
Above, where once the indignant god of war 
Before the assembled deities appear'd, 
(So Fable speaks) to answer for the death 
Of Halirrhotius, Neptune's son — thence nam'd 
The hill of Mars — in sacred conclave met 
The court of Areopagites, the gods 
Of this low world ! Pavilion'd in thick darkness, 
And from obtrusive cares shut out, beneath 
The open sky the great assembly sat 
Justice was theirs, unbending and severe — 
By wily art of orator unmov'd, 
By pow'r unaw'd; but yet by mercy sweet 
Attemper'd, and to wisdom's voice not deaf 
Great Solon! once by Lydia's throneless king, 
Cowering beneath the Persian despot's frown, 

* The hill of the Areopagus. 



12 

Pronounc'd wisest of men!' such was the court 
August, 'stablish'd by thee* But soon amid 
The ever varying scenes of earth, its power 
Was oft abus'd, and Justice thence expell'd, 
That crime a short-Hv'd triumph might obtain. 
In after age, once summon'd to this court, 
Stood here, majestic, one, whose lofty port, 
And eye of fire, and Heav'n-inspired tongue, 
Flash'd strange conviction in th' ignoble crew,^ 
Whom folly gather'd to adjudge his cause. 
Methinks e'en now, towering aloft like him. 
The martial god, whose statue seem'd to quake 
And tremble at his words — methinks e'en now 
I see the holy man, emphatic term'd 
The Apostle of the Gentiles ! here he stood, 
Unmov'd and undismay'd at aught his foes 
Might in their malice impotent invent ; 
In flowing robe, with outstretch'd arms, and head 
Uncover'd, ardent the great advocate 
His cause defended, boldly preaching Him, 
" The unknown God," whom ignorant they ador'd. 
Raphael ! what wondrous art was that of thine : 
Such as he was, to us thou hast reveal'd 
The godlike man. Before his form august, 

* To speak strictly, was new modelled by him. 



13 

Philosophy, in Stoic guise severe, 
Or Cynic stern, or Epicurean soft, 
(In the thin robe of meretricious art 
All veil'd alike) confounded and abash'd, 
Thou hast depictur'd :* while, low at his feet. 
The humble neophyte, with grateful heart, 
And look that speaks conviction, eager lists 
The man divine, and breathes intenser love 
Tow'rd Him whose glorious messenger he is. 

That gentle eminencet where the oaten pipe 
Of shepherd now alone is heard, whose slope 
Is turned to the setting sun, full oft 
Was press'd by the fond many ! thither throng'd, 
Tumultuous, the giddy people, pleas'd 
To mix in matters of the state, and weigh 
The destinies of realms, though all too weak 
To rule the little empire of the heart. 
Ye gods ! how often have they vex'd the skies 
With their obstreperous mirth — or forc'd the tear 
At sight of folly so consummate, from 
The philosophic eye — or blanch'd the cheek 
Of innocence, by violence condemn'd, 
O better far that here the golden ear 

* See the Cartoon of" Paul preaching at Athens." 
t The Pnyx Hill. 



14 

Should annual to the sickle bend — the grape 

Yield its rich juice luxurious — or flocks 

Graze harmless the declivous hill, than wild 

Democracy, with fell demoniac rage, 

And torrent's mighty force, should here bear sway. 

High over these, in endless perspective, 
Arise the lofty summits of the hills 
Which frown o'er the Athenian vales : and far 
Beyond, though dimly seen (to fancy's eye 
Except) Parnassus, and bright Helicon, 
And Jove's OAvn mount Olympus, to the skies 
Proudly their cloudy coronets exalt. 
Anchesmus first his conic top obtrudes, 
High towering ; then the rocky heights of dark 
Pentelicus, that witness'd the defeat 
Of Persia's host on Marathonia's plain : 
Where, like a brinded lion, breathing flame. 
Resistless rushing on his prey, was seen 
Miltiades ! Victory in his van, 
And Death, and Havoc, and Destruction, swift 
Following in his rear, empurpling deep 
The thirsty soil with blood of recreant foes. 
Next these Brilessus, Parnes, stretch in chain 
Continuous their rugged lines along 



15 

The dim horizon ; there the Athenian youth 
Oft met in manly fray the tusked boar, 
And triumph'd in the fight. Far to the west, 
Cithaeron hfts his sacred head, and 'mid 
His secret caves, still lists the echoes wild 
Of sad Actseon's voice ! or borne anon 
Upon the midnight blast, affrighted hears 
The dying shrieks that mournful then ascend 
From Leuctra's, or Platsea's bloody fields. 
And where, jEgaleos, thy darkling cliffs, 
Spuming the ruffian waves, majestic rise. 
There, bright in eastern pomp, glitt'ring in gold 
And Tyrian purple, 'mid his suppliant slaves. 
Sat the Great King ! and saw, with heart appall'd, 
His coward myriads shrinking from the storm 
Rais'd by collision dire with Grecian foes — 
Themistocles himself a mighty host ! — 
And ignominious seeking 'neath the wave 
A shelter from their wrath. Proud Xerxes ! when 
From throne of costliest gems, aloft thou view'dst, 
Covering the Asian plains, the multitude 
Immense led on by thee to battle — thou 
Wast fain to shed ' some natural tears ' at sight 
So grievous :* now perchance when hurrying wild 



16 

O'er plains of Thessaly, or scaling swift, 
By wings of fear upborne, the frowning heights 
Of Macedon and Thrace (leaving thy hordes 
To gorge the vulture fierce) a bitterer tear 
For thine own fate, vain monarch, secret fell. 

Southward now turn, and view the expanse of sea 
That stretches out in boundless longitude, 
From Corinth's towers, that wide o'erlook the gulphs 
Which, there disparted, strive in vain to meet — 
To Scyllseum's promontory bold — and thence 
To Hydra's barren shores, by Commerce made 
To blossom as the rose. Hydra ! thy name 
Not less than prouder Salamis, shall long 
The patriot muse delight : thy flag now floats 
In triumph o'er the sea, and as it waves. 
The Crescent pales. But look ! where in the midst, 
jEgina rises with the sacred fane 
Of Panhellenian Jove : and, as a speck 
On Ocean's bosom, see Calauria's isle, 
At once the refuge and the grave of him* 
Who singly and alone a tyrant's threats 
Defy'd, and fulmin'd in a monarch's ear ! 
But if thy vision keen extend so far, 

* Demosthenes. 



17 

Now look abroad— survey the wide ^gsean ! 

Amid those gems of ocean, Cyclades 

So nam'd, let thy enchanted eye awhile 

Repose -, and there, slow rising from the waves, 

See flow'ry Delos, once the soft abode 

Of bright Latona, and her heav'nly twins. 

See Naxos, with his vine-empurpled hills ; 

Where, hid in myrtle bower, the Cretan maid 

Entranced lay : but ah ! too soon awaking 

From her soft dream of love, descried afar 

The faithless Theseus bounding o'er the wave. 

There Paros, dear to art, his lofty brow 

Shadowy amid the emerald sea erects ; 

Revealing to the curious eye alone. 

His dazzling caves, whence Egypt's mighty fanes 

Of wondrous fabric, or thy temples fair 

Renowned Greece, were with a giant's strength 

Uprais'd.^ Thence too were ta'en those precious 

In which celestial forms were oft conceal'd ; [blocks, 

Till Genius, breathing on the mass inert, 

Dissolv'd the spell, and gave to radiant day 

Their forms divine. Than these still nearer, view 

The cliffs of Seriphos, where, wafted once 

From Argos' treacherous shore, the little bark 

3 



18 

With its lov'd freight, the progeny of Jove, 

And his sad mother fair, fast anchor'd lay. 

O Perseus ! wild as tale of Araby, 

Is the light web by Fiction wove, of thy 

Too marvellous life. With verdure ever bright, 

Far to the south, the beauteous los seems 

To float upon the wave. 'Mid laurel groves, 

And overshadowing bays, and flowers that bloom 

Perennial, loading the enamour'd gales 

With perfumes, here, as in the bowers of bliss 

To lyres immortal he attunes his own, 

Reposes mighty Homer's shade ! But when 

The tempest wakes the wrathful deep, and winds 

Rude music make, majestic then anon 

To some high beetling cliff* it stalks, and dreams 

That still, amid the battle's din, it hears 

The shouts of victor Greece, and mourns once more, 

Or seems to mourn, the matchless Hector slain, 

And Ilion's nodding towers ! From thence, perchance 

Thy piercing view the rosy isle* may reach. 

Where Beauty, like the soft-eyed Day, when first 

From ocean's pearly caves he lifts his head, 

Resplendent rose ; graceful her dewy locks 

*Cythera. 



19 

With circling arms upholding, while around 
The fragrant zephyrs joyous fan their wings, 
And Love immortal, with the heavenly train 
Of Graces, rapt'rous the bright goddess hail ! 
Venus ! thou sovereign arbitress of heaven — 
Delight of gods and men ! 'twas thus amid 
The soft retreats of Cos (where slumb'ring lay 
The lovely boy, by thine own handmaids nurs'd) 
To young Apelles thou wast oft reveal'd — 
Apelles, now immortal too like thee. 

But where, lov'd Muse, amid the ideal fields 
Of song dost wander ? There delighted hast 
Thou rov'd, as when among the flow'ry vales [oft, 
And blooming bowers of earth thou stray'st; wher& 
With an enchantress sweet, the hours soft flow 
In silence eloquent as words that burn. 
O Nature ! with primeval charms adorn'd, 
Thou ever riot'st in unfading youth ; 
While man, scarce heir of one poor hour, laments 
His shorten'd date, and loud 'gainst Time inveighs 
(Himself more fell !) and deprecates his power. 
Fond fool ! behold where solitary stand 
Like giants 'mid a pigmy race of men. 
The lofty pillars of the Olympian Jove ! 



20 

Stood these alone, expos'd from earliest time, 
Without or roof, or architrave, or frieze 
With storied sculptures wrought by hand divine f 
Or hath the thunderbolt of Jove himself 
Destroy'd the pile sublime, and yawning earth 
Ingulph'd the cumbrous ruin ? Impious thought ! 
Thou self destroyer, man ! 'twas thou alone 
Who from its solid base, with madd'ning rage, 
Not then, as once, with strength endued by Heav'n^ 
Uprais'd the ponderous mass, and furious hurl'd 
Its hundred columns thundering to the ground. 
Witness ye monuments that skirt the plain, 
And ye that tott'ring yet, yet menace oft 
The adventurous traveller 'mid these classic scenes, 
Witness the blind, the fell revenge of man ! 
And thou, the marvel of each wondering age. 
At once the shame and glory of the world, 
Majestic Parthenon!" do thou attest, 
(Alas ! thou canst not long attest) the wrath 
Inveterate of him, whose plastic hand 
First drew thee from the cavern'd quarry dark, 
Ador'd the matchless work himself had rais'd, [base. 
And then (most strange perverseness !) sapp'd thy 
Forgive, immortal shade ! I do thee wrong, 



21 

O Pericles ! Not to the Greek, forsooth, 
Of elder or of modern time, belongs 
The lasting shame ; nor to the Turk alone : 
Venice, far more to thee ! and, Elgin, much 
(Though not to England) much indeed to thee. 
Hah! whence that plaint? at mention of his name), 
Methought upon the breeze a mournful sigh 
Came floating sad, as if some secret grief 
Prey'd on a widow'd heart. Alas the cause ! 
Say, Elgin, didst thou hear that wild lament 
When, with the spoiler's rage, the hallowed porch 
Thou enter'dst rude, and tore away the maid? 
O bootless plunder ! O barbaric spoil ! 
That precious fane,* the Goths of every age, 
The Christian and the infidel, had spar'd : 
For thee alone, to mar the beauteous work 
It was reserv'd. E'er since that fatal day, 
The fond companions of the captive fair 
Her absence have deplor'd ; and every gale 
That hovers near, on sympathetic wing. 
The sadd'ning plaint to distant climes conveys.' 

Yet one remains, the refuge of despair 
In other times, but, ah ! no refuge now 

.*, TMe little temple of Fandrosus, on the Acropolis. 



22 

To helpless Greece — the temple built by him, 

The patriot hero to the patriot king.* 

Look ! where in pristine majesty it stands, 

Though dimm'd its lustre, and despoil'd of all 

The boasted treasures of the chisell'd art. 

Thou splendid monument of elder time ! 

Were but thy base deep founded as his fame, 

Thy fabric stable as his virtue's rock. 

The warring elements in vain should beat, 

And earth itself to its foundation shake, 

Yet 'mid the dire commotion thou remain ! [endure 

Thou phrensied Gaul !' could'st thou the thought 

To wrest this dearest relick from the soil, 

To plant it impious on a foreign strand ? 

Shade of immortal Theseus, arise ! 

In dreadful majesty appear once more. 

And palsy with benumbing fear what hand 

Shall sacrilegious dare attempt the deed. 

Yet even this, this stately pile, must fall ; 

So too that prouder fane by PhidiaS built ; 

So all these vestiges august! Time saps 

Their base, and rude barbaric hands assail 

The superstructure. When, upon a day 

* The temple of Theseus : it was erected in honour of thftt- hdro by Cimon, 
the son of Miltiades. 



23 

Not distant, some lone pilgrim shall demand 
Where Athens stood ? perchance he may be told 
To go and seek it on another spot ; — 
The startled hunter says, it is not here ! 

O tale of wonder ! tale in after age 
Of hard belief — incredible in this ! 
That Europe's sons, who owe to Greece the lights 
Of science and of song, the boon of arts 
And every nobler gift, should passive view 
Her shores polluted by a barbarous foe ! 
That they, whose banner is the Cross, should still 
Reckless behold it trampled in the dust, — 
While, swell'd to torrents, streams the precious blood 
From Grecian veins, a deeper stain to dye 
Than e'er empurpled yet the hallowed soiL 
O England, dear to liberty ! at once 
The stay, support, defender of the oppress'd. 
Canst thou not hear when heavenly pity pleads 
In such a cause ? ah ! from what height, how fall'n. 
And thou, whose virgin vows for freedom breathed 
My darling Country ! to whose outstretch'd arm.s 
The wretched flee for safety and repose, 
Must thou too, all resistless as thou art. 
Withhold thy timely succour in an hour, 



24 

That or restores to Greece her noblest birthrightj 
Or else indissolubly binds her chains ! 
It cannot — shall not be ! Greece shall survive — 
But hark ! e'en now, methinks, I hear the shout 
Of despot power, and now the deep'ning groans 
Of an expiring land ! Indignant Heaven ! 
The Moslem triumphs, while the sons of sires 
Illustrious, drink death at savage hands. 
Spirit of ancient Greece ! that sitt'st enthron'd 
Upon thy everlasting hills, descend ! 
Stoop from on high — swell loud the heroic trump ! 
From impious foes quick snatch the bleeding band, 
Burst their rude bonds, and crush, remorseless crush, 
The stern oppressors of a glorious race. 



SCIO 



ETC, 



4 



SCIO 



A dream ! thou say''st ; ^tis not such stuff as dreams' 
Are made of. 

Oh, what a dream of honours has been mine 1* 
Lost in a pleasing reverie at first, 
Methought that on the instant I was borne 
Upon the viewless winds, far to the east. 
To where the sun from cloudless sky peers fortk,. 
And from Ionian hills darts his slant beams 
O'er all the ^gsean. There arriv'd as quick, 
Methought, I glad alighted on an Isle 
Lav'd by the violet waves, that seem'd to my 
Astonish'd gaze a place of pure delights, 
A paradise below ! Throughout the wide 
Extent, gay villages, and glittering towns. 
And cottages, appear'd ; and over all 
The land the happy people careless rov'd, 
Or, deep conceal'd within their rosy bowers, 
They sung the joys of love — or, luU'd anon 



28 

By the soft murmurings of the bee, in dreams 
Repeated all their joys. Buoyant as air, 
And gay as unconcem'd, the livelier youth 
Were seen to skim the plain, or, 'neath the shade, 
With the bright nymphs of rapture-beaming eye. 
They in the dance were link'd. The empurpled hills 
Were festoon'd with the vine ; the vallies wav'd 
With golden grain ; the olive and the fig [wide 
Seem'd with their luscious fruits surcharg'd ; and 
Through air the citron, and, of deeper tinge. 
The fragrant orange, all their sweets efFus'd. 
Such was that blissful scene ! But as I stood 
Upon the sun-bright hill, breathing delight 
And gazing on the lovely world beneath, 
Lo ! in the east a blacken'd cloud appear'd, 
Sweeping the horizon round, and, up to heav'n 
Ascending quick, o'ershadow'd all the earth. 
The orb of day, I thought, was struck from heav'n — 
His golden beams all quench'd ! for midnight reign'd, 
Black as was Erebus ; and SUence' self 
Stood fix'd in breathless expectation. Me 
A chilling awe, the harbinger of death, 
Methought had seized, and down I powerless sunk ; 
But, as I lay supine upon the ground. 



29 

Immediate all the vaulted sky was fir'd, 
And horrid shrieks, and groans, and piteous cries^ 
With yells of triumph intermix'd, my ear 
Assail'd. Upon my feet, startled, I sprang, 
As if by sudden strength endued, and cast 
My wildering eye around. O, God of man ! 
What did I there behold? From every town, 
Whence the glad hum of busy multitudes 
But now arose — from every smiling cot, 
And hamlet gay, the angry flames and smoke. 
In volumes dun, portentous stream'd thro' heav'ni 
While by the ominous light, scouring the land, 
I saw, spread far and wide, a ruffian horde. 
And in their hideous train the monster crew- 
Slaughter, and Lust, and Crime. As when a flock. 
At sight of some grim tenant of the wild. 
Flies devious o'er the plain, nor stops to look 
Behind — so from their impious foes, I thought, 
Fled swift the hapless race. But safety none, 
Nor refuge, could they find. Even valour then 
Was powerless, taken by surprise ; or, press'd 
By numbers, fought, hopeless of victory. 
At first, with mad revenge, the harden'd foe 
Slew all — ^youth, childhood, age, the softer sex. 



30 

All fell their prey. But when they spar'd, 'twas 

worse : 
Men were their victims, and the blooming youth, 
Aspiring to be men. Lo ! weltering in 
Their gore they lie, while o'er their breathless clay 
The dastards revel. Ah ! how blest your fate, 
Ye slaughter'd fathers, sons ! I pitying thought ; 
Ye hear no more the wild laments, the shrieks. 
Which rend the air ; ye view no more your wives, 
Your mothers, bending frantic o'er the slain ; 
Or, wing'd with fear, fly desperate to the beach, 
And of the winds and waves ask succour, while. 
Deaf to their cries, the winds and waves repel 
The trembling fugitives. Your daughters too — 
Oh, sight of horrour ! No — ye see not them 
Fast in your murderers' arms — their stifled cries 
Ye list not, though the rifted rocks recoil 
Affrighted, and the heavens more darkly frown. 
But, sick at heart, and struck aghast at sight 
Of such polluted scenes, where, in the forms 
Of men, the fiends of hell seem'd all let loose 
To prey upon mankind, methought I turn'd 
Away, and glad had clos'd my eyes in death : 
When, as by some enchanter's touch, the scene 



31 

Again was chang'd. A lurid sky was all 

That I perceiv'd above, while the Avide earth 

Was one extended waste, where Solitude 

Her sceptre joyless sway'd. The vine-clad hills, 

The golden plains, and trees surcharg'd with fruit> 

Had vanish'd all ; mute was the voice of love, 

And dead to joy the land. Mournful I gaz'd, 

And still stood fix'd to gaze, when from the shores 

Remote a numerous fleet I saw depart, 

And on the treacherous decks a frantic crowd — 

The wives, the daughters, of this happy Isle, 

Now slaves of Cruelty and Lust ! at this 

Abhorred view I felt my bosom swell 

To bursting, and with double rage I burnt 

To slay the tyrants. But on the instant check'd, 

I with surprise ineffable beheld 

Alighting from a dazzling cloud, upon 

The hill where then I stood, a goddess form ! 

Bright with immortal charms she stood ; and, cas'd 

In heavenly panoply, her glittering spear 

She wav'd. I saw, and, humbled to the dust, 

Methought I prostrate fell ; when, with a voice 

Of more than earthly dignity, these words, 

Gracious, she thus vouchsaf 'd : " Mortal ! in me 



32 

"^ Behold the majesty of Greece ! I long 
" Have view'd her 'sons indignant groan beneath 
" The oppressor's rod. The slaves of slaves, they felt 
" Their iron bonds corrode the soul. They breath'd 
" Revenge : Revenge ! they loud exclaim— and hiUs 
" And vales repeat with one acclaim, revenge ! 
" The time has come when the barbaric host 
" Shall yield to freemen — when, inspir'd by me, 
" Greece from her shores the impious foe again 
" Shall drive ; or once more with their blood shall 

drench 
" Platsea's plain, and Marathon's proud field ! 
" Arise then, son of earth ! nor let thy soul 
" Despair : the gods — yea, the great God of heaven 
*' And earth, in such a cause, will lend his aid. 
" Greece yet shall live — shall triumph o'er her foes!" 
This said, immediate in a golden cloud 
The heavenly vision was again involv'd, 
And snatch'd from view. For me, lost and perplex'd, 
Now cheer'd, now plung'd in grief, stung by despair 
Or fir'd by hate, aloud I maddening call'd 
(Or thought I call'd) on heaven ! on earth ! for aid; 
And, with the effort made, at once awoke. 



INVOCATION 

TO HEALTH. 



Daughter of Heav'n ! to thee, from whose bright eyes 
The purest beam of joy ineffable, 
As from the sun his vivifying ray, 
Divinely emanates, to thee I wake 
The lyre, and to my adventurous strain thy aid 
Invoke. Fair queen of smiles, queen of delights 
Which none but those who worship thee can feel, 
And feeling paint — Hygeia, hail ! Thy brows 
The immortal amaranth, intermingled gay 
With roses dipt in blushing clouds of morn, 
Irradiates. Round thy bright form divine 
A purple-tinctured robe fantastic waves, 
The sport of zephyrs, bearing on their wings 
Unnumber'd perfumes : while, with lavish hands 
Strewing thy steps with flowers, and to the sound 
Of sweetest music dancing, thy blest train, [them, 
The Hours, weave their light measures. O ! with 
With thee, bright goddess, let me ever taste 



34 

Supernal joy. Whether with thee, to scale 
The mountain heights abrupt, when from the East 
The young-eyed Day first shoots his level beams 
Along their tops, panting I climb — or seek, 
With thee, the shadowy groves at sultry noon, 
Or else, at dewy eve, eager with thee 
I hie me where extends the grassy vale 
Its sinuous length— to me 'tis equal bliss. 

Where'er thou beckonest, pleas'd, I follow swift. 
Sure that no dangers lurk within thy paths, 
Where gladness ever reigns. There no gaunt forms^ 
The abhorrent brood of Sickness and Despair, 
Appal the view ; nor finds the monster Death 
His victims there. Oh ! no : on beds of down, 
In Luxury's soft lap, at the gay feast, 
Amid the revel and the song, he seeks 
(Invisible himself) whom he may pierce : 
Insidious flies his shaft, and wounds who least 
Suspect the blow ; or, with pestiferous breath, 
He taints the fount of life. Ah ! little knows 
The wretch, who feels the arrow sent to kill, 
He whom pale sickness, with benumbing touch. 
Has stretch'd upon his couch the livelong day, 
And sadder night, the joys that flow from health. 



35 

The glorious morn, dispensing light from heav'n, 

No rapture brings to him — the mountain breeze 

Nor tingles in his veins, nor with delight 

Forever new his breast dilates — no flowers. 

Nurtured in genial soil, expand and bloom 

To cheer his languid view, or to exhale 

For him their sweets. Nature herself, indeed, 

To the unhappy man seems sick at heart ; 

Does he but hear the rustling breeze, he starts 

As if he felt the death-wind passing by 

To sweep him to the tomb ; if but a ray 

Of the all-cheering sun — cheering to all 

But him — salute his eyes, how does he shrink 

From the blest beam, as if along with it 

Contagion dire and pestilence were borne. 

Alas, for thee, beloved Frisbie ! Was 
That effluence divine, that fervid ray, 
Fatal to thee ? Didst thou too learn to sigh 
Upon the bed of sickness ? Didst thou feel 
That faintness of the soul oppressing life, 
When hope is long deferr'd ? Too true, thou didst : 
And thou couldst tell how many a pang it cost 
To part forever from a world so lov'd. 
Yet at the last, O envied fate ! thou heardst 



36 

A voice, a still small voice, that whispered peace 

To thee ; and, as the fatal hour drew nigh 

Which sever'd thee from us, a seraph-form, 

Descending from the skies, shewed thee the gates 

Of everlasting bliss, and, wiping quick 

Thy tears away, bade thee to enter in. 

Ah ! who may hope that his career shall end 

So tranquilly as thine ; who hope like thee 

To find upon the pillow of Disease 

A solace for the pangs which rend at once 

The wasted flesh, and lacerate the heart ! 

O then with healing in thy wings be near, 
Be to thy votary always near, and let 
My grateful vows to thee be ever paid, 
Hygeia ! What is the laurell'd wreath to him 
Who basks not in thy smile ? what guerdon fair 
Can fame bestow to compensate its loss ? 
If thou withdraw'st thy heavenly aid, thy smile 
Beneficent, instant the warrior's arm 
Sinks neiTeless by his side, and from his brows 
Unheeded falls the crown of victory. 
The sage, who nightly pours upon the page 
Of wisdom his dim eye, forgetting thee, 
As studious he sits by the pale lamp. 



37 

Anon, with look of vacancy beholds 

His laurels blasted, but without a sigh. 

The poet too, whom thou hadst taught to soar 

Upon the morning's wings, far higher than 

His fabled Pegasus — high as the stars 

Of heaven, with lyre unstrung, and moist with dew 

(Not Castalie's sweet dew !) drooping descends, 

If thou desert him in his flight. But O \ 

Mark the fond lover as he joyous weaves 

The myrtle and the rosy wreath, and binds 

With them unbroken faith and constancy : 

Sudden, bereft of thee, vanish his smiles, 

A chilling frost steals o'er his frame, he drops 

The flow'ry braid now tarnished with his tears. 

And yields resistless to his mournful fate. 

Mysterious sympathy ! Strange that the soul. 
That spark ethereal, unquenchable. 
Never to die, should with this baser mould 
Be affianc'd ! Stranger still, that, being so, 
It should be e'er elated or depress'd 
By what its humble, low associate 
Or suffers, or enjoys. Nor only so : 
To all the " skyey influences," alike, 
'Tis subject too. The vernal sun — the bow 



38 

Glittering 'mid April showers — the wide blue vault 

Of heaven, and balmy gale — as seen, or felt, 

Exert propitious o'er them both a bland 

And secret sway ; while the cold damps of night — 

The air imprison'd long — the lurid storm. 

And voUied lightning dread, unhinge the springs 

Of life, and all the trembling soul appal. 

Ah ! who shall solve the problem dark of man ! 

To the gay child of Fancy I no more 

Address my prayers : But O ! do TTiou that sitt'st 

Above all thrones, whose dwelling is the fount 

Of truth and joy, do thou conduct me where 

I fain would go. Amid the mazy paths 

Of errour I am lost : amid this vale. 

This dark sublunar vale, I seek in vain 

That healing power, which can at once restore 

The languid body, and a balm infuse 

Into the deep recesses of the soul. 



THE 

OCEAN-TRAVELLERS 



With what a giddy and vivacious joy 
The sons of ocean hasten to the strand, 
And eager mount the stately bark, to hie 
They know not where, yet feverish to depart. 
Alas ! what toils, what dangers, and what careSj 
The restless fugitives attend. Some far 
'Mid polar seas adventurous urge the prow 
To where Leviathan disports, anon 
To yield upon the purple tide his life 
And bulk immense to man, if (fate severe !) 
The hapless bark, 'twixt icy mountains wedg'd, 
Be crush'd not. Some to Europe's peopled shores, 
Far up the Baltic, or the midland sea, 
Where beauteous Greece, with liberty, expires, 
Advance ; or skirt the shores of Erin, or, 
Bright Albion! rush into thy busy ports, 
Fill'd with the navies of the subject world. 
Some to the South sail devious. 'Mid the Isles 



40 

That blossom with the cane, and stretch around 
And fill the bosom of the Mexic gulph, 
Thousands are lur'd ; but in the scented gales 
They sicken and expire. Others, more bold, 
Beyond the mighty Capes adventure, toss'd 
By storms, or driven by the blast ; and thence 
Diverging, meet no more — or only meet 
At the antipodes : these the bright sun 
Salutes, as o'er the eastern seas they bound, 
Or coast the shores of Afric, or of Ind ; 
While those the smooth Pacific skim, or 'mid 
The ocean-isles, where the brown nymphs their 

charms 
Guileless reveal, their mazy track pursue. 
But endless were the task to follow round 
The watery world the hardy race, who claim 
No less the muse's pity than her song. 
Where'er they go, danger still follows swift, 
Disease o'ertakes, or purple plague destroys. 
Ye sullen waves, that murmur round the shores 
Of Java's isle malignant, say ! — for ye 
Can tell — what numbers there repose beneath 
The turbid tide. There manhood in his prime, 
And youth elate with hope, all sink alike. 



41 

Invisible the infectious Spirit walks 

The wave, and, 'mid the affrighted souls whom love 

Of gold or wild adventure thither sends, 

Darts pestilence and death ! Nor did he spare 

My dear Arion ! from his tender cheek 

The rose immediate wither'd, as the ifiend 

Too rudely breath'd, and down he sunk, unheard^ 

Unwept ! Ye zephyrs bland ! ye balmy gales ! 

Could ye not lift his head ? Ye Naiads too, 

Enamour'd as ye were ! could ye not save 

The beauteous boy ? For him, for you, I weep ! 

But why these partial tears ? Condemn'd to drink 

The briny wave, what thousands die, and leave 

No brother to relate their piteous tale ! 

Now, by the tempest dash'd, the fragile bark 

Is strewn upon the mountain waves, and all 

Are lost ! Now, in the smooth but treacherous calm, 

Amid a boundless solitude of sea. 

Sudden the vessel sinks, and as the waves 

Collapse, one piercing shriek ascends to heaven ! 

And strait through all the amplitude of sky 

A dread repose ensues. Yet happy such. 

Thrice happy, when to those compar'd whose fate 

Ordains to linger out their lives (their hopes, 

6 



42 

Their fortunes shipwreck'd !) while to a rude plank 
Alone, or thing as frail, a little skiff. 
Tenacious they adhere ; and view aghast, 
Where'er they turn, the phantom of despair 
Still brooding o'er the waves. Alas for thee, 
(Too rightly nam'd) Medusa !* who shall tell 
What horrors once were thine ? who dare behold ? 
If the bold hand of fancy could depict 
The dreadful scene. Not Gallia's sons, her gay 
Mercurial sons, that laugh at pain, and in 
The battle's heat brave death in thousand forms. 
Could undismay'd then meet the tyrant's frowns. 
As when on some unwary head alights 
The thunderbolt, so terrible the shock 
To them ! In noon of midnight too it came. 
When, lost in feverish sleep, or dreams of love. 
The careless crew repos'd. Wild with affright, 
They start, they spring upon the deck ! some wield 
The dexterous axe, and some the cordage cut — 
Sudden the masts fall thundering down — the decks 
Are clear'd— boats launch'd— and all prepare, should 

dire 
Necessity impel, to spurn the wreck. 

* The name of a French frigate which was shipwrecl^ed in the African seas. 



43 

Then comes a mighty surge, and in the deep 
Whelms half the abject host ! and, rent in twain. 
The shatter'd bark with twice a hundred souls. 
Scarce floats upon the wave, lash'd to and fro 
As suits theunpitying Avinds. There all nightlong^ 
And many a day — dark as the blackest night. 
With horrours fiU'd — to fragments of the wreck, 
Grappling with death, they cling ! But all in vain. 
Some desperate plunge beneath the tide, and now 
No more are seen ! Some frantic stand and call 
On Heaven for aid, that Heaven had ne'er invok'd 
Before ! Some, stung by hunger and despair, 
With madness rave, and slay their fellows ! Those, 
With horrid rage, their famish'd appetites 
Allay by feasting on the dead — and these 
With atrophy expire ! A wretched few 
Alone escape ; the rest, forever hid 
In ocean's coral caves, lie weltering deep ! 



MUTUAL LOVE. 



" Ofair encounter 
" Of two most rare affections ."' 

There is a moment in the life of man 
Most happy even to my sombre view — 
It is the moment of revealed love ! 
Nay, scoff not ye profane ; 'tis not for you 
The muse inglorious sings : no, nor for you 
Who sordid find a substitute for love 
In drossy ore. Would'st know what time I deem 
Thus fortunate ? ' Tis when the gentle nymph, 
With blushes sweet, avows to him she loves 
The passion of her heart — in modish phrase, 
Consents to be beloved ! O Heaven and Earth ! 
How are ye both in happy unison 
Combin'd, to bless the lover then, and shed 
Your sweetest, purest influence on him, 
On every thing around. No phrensy wild, 
No tumult of the thoughts, disturb the breast 
In that propitious hour ; but all is calm 



45 

And bright as summer seas, reflecting mild 
The lustre of the morn. Joy sits serene 
Upon the youthful brow, and plumes secure 
His golden wings ; while tenderness dissolves 
The soul. The lover's eye, whene'er it meets 
The timid fair's, or bashfid shrinks — or, fix'd 
An instant there, where shine love's lambent orbs. 
Drinks in the soft effulgence. When she speaks,^ 
He thinks it is a seraph's voice he hears, 
And lists the while delighted, and could still 
Forever listen to the strain. But if. 
Perchance, his lips should press her yielding hand, 
What sudden joy immediate thrills the frame, 
And fills the bosom of the favour'd youth ! 
The soul, in the soft hour thus rapturous spent 
In blessing and in being blest, finds joy 
It never knew till then, nor craves for more. 
Yet if a thought should wander, still the heart 
O'erflows with love ; for, seated by the nymph 
Ador'd, the youth impassion'd feels his breast 
Dilate ; and with the love he breathes for her. 
Is mingled warm a prayer for all that live. 
Meantime the heavens serener smile, and seem 
To Fancy's view — seem to the blissful pair. 



46 

Replete with joyous beings like themselves t 
And over all the earth — upon the hills 
And mountain tops, and in the blooming vales 
The notes of gladness ring, and wide proclaim 
The soften'd triumph of the infant god. 
Tell me, ye virtuous few, ye who in youth's 
Ecstatic hour have felt, and ye who now 
In bloom of adolescence feel, the bliss 
Of being lov'd — tell me if such is not 
The image of a pure and hallowed love. 



THE 

WEDDED PAIR 



" Sweet Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv''st unseen 

Within thy aery shell, 
By slow Meander's margent green, — 
Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair 

Most like to these ?" 

The rosy hours of childhood are most sweet—* 
And sweet the purple morn of youth — sweet too 
The happy moment of revealed love. 
But O ! how sweeter far the joys of him 
Who clasps, transported, to his breast the nymph 
Whose only vows were breath'd for him — for whom 
'Tis bliss to live — for whom 'twere bliss to die ! 
For ask the lover now with nuptial crown 
Adorn'd, and link'd by Hymen's silken chain 
To her whose virgin beauty fir'd his heart, 
And whose serener graces of the mind 
Had touch'd his soul, if happiness to one 
Poor fleeting moment, or perchance, to years, 
Of undissembled, prosperous love 's confined ? 
Exulting he will answer, no ! nor would 



48 

He now exchange one hour of wedded life, 

For all the gladsome moments of the past. 

True, fancj sometimes may, to cheat the heart, 

Depict on golden web the semblance bright 

Of vanish'd joys ; and fond remembrance cling 

To the idea soft : but now he feels 

" The sober certainty of waking bliss," 

The happier youth looks back without regret, 

And forward with a smile. Twin'd with the bands 

Of virtuous love, the present he enjoys, 

Nor dreams of distant ills, if haply she. 

The charmer of his soul, be near. Behold ! 

Ye who in pleasure's flowery paths have stray'd 

Erratic, seeking joy, but finding none. 

Behold the wedded Pair ! How graceful do 

Th^y skim the verdant plain like two young fawns 

Exuberant with life, thoughtless of harm, 

And happy in themselves. O, who would wound 

Their guileless hearts, or envious mar the peace 

Of innocence like theirs ! Anon they pause. 

And up to heaven, as witness of their bhss. 

They look ! and then, reflected here below, 

In their own visages reflected, see 

Its brightness and its calm. They look around ! 



4d 

And earth, in all its loveliness array'd, 
Seems form'd for them alone. They look to God! 
And, with approving smiles, the God of heaven 
And earth unites their hearts, and gracious breathes 
Unsullied peace within. Ah, happy they, 
(If ought of happiness is found on earth,) 
Who nor in thought nor action stand accus'd — 
Who thus in pleasures pure consume the day, 
In mutual love, their lives ! So in the midst 
Of Eden's blooming bowers, together stood, 
Together graceful rov'd, the matchless Pair ! 
Crown'd with immortal youth — pure, innocent, 
And beautiful as heaven ! they rather seem'd 
Like beings just alighted from the skies. 
Than denizens of earth. Joy sparkled in 
Their eyes, and in their hearts love reign'd supreme. 
Ye paragons of earth ! why were ye lost ? 
How from your bowers of bliss was bliss exil'd ? 
7 



FLORELLO. 



« That Angel Boy .'" 

O, CHILDHOOD ! age of bliss ! forever gone, 
Yet still remember'd with impassion'd love, 
How beautiful art thou ! How often have 
I gazed upon the clear blue fields of heav'n, 
And thought I should be happy there — as oft 
Upon thy face, sweet childhood, have I gaz'd, 
And thought of heav'n the while ! And who but feels 
And must forever feel a sympathy 
For thee, while innocence has power to win 
The heart, or tenderness a refuge finds 
Within the human breast. What thousand charms 
L'ov'd age, are thine, till reason disenchants 
The scene, and all thy fairy land, dissolv'd, 
Evaporates like a wild fantastic dream ! 
Such was the airy world in which thou liv'dst, 
Florello ! and so evanescent too. 
Thy little world and thee evanish'd both 
At once, struck by a rude, unwelcome guest. 



51 

Than Reason colder. Whom ! thy epitaph 
Will tell. Here have I often sat me down — 
Here, while the dews of heav'n fell thick upon 
Thy grave, and thought of what thou wast, and what,^ 
Perchance, thou would'st have been ! sad, pleasing 

thoughts ! 
But all beyond man's feeble ken is dark. 
Had God prolong'd thy date, the same kind power 
Might have endued thee with superior mind. 
A Chatham's eloquence, perhaps, had fall'n 
Persuasive from thy tongue, or Milton's muse 
Been rivall'd in thine own ! or, mournful thought, 
Like Beattie's sons, by genius crown'd, and deep 
Imbued with classic lore, in bloom of youth 
Thou might'st have sunk to rest. Ah ! who shall tell 
What else thou might'st have been. But little boots 
Such inquisition. What thou wast I know, 
AnAfeeU Florello ! Oh ! how have I gazed 
Upon that lovely face as it was deck'd 
With smiles, and caught felicity from it : 
And then anon, while watching thee, intent 
To read thy mind, how would my fond heart ache ! 
Why was it so ? Could such ingratitude ' 
Perv9.de my breast ? It is for you — you who 



52 

Possess Florellos, to reply. And once 
Again, upon a time Despair had mark'd 
Me for his prey, and unresisting seiz'd, 
I rivetted my eyes upon that face : 
'Twas beautiful ! But not a smile was seen 
To play around those lips ; though seeming as 
In act to speak, half op'd, their vermil tint 
Had fled : I thought to catch a breathing word, 
And bent me close to hear — but all was still ! 
AU save the throbbings of my bleeding heart. 



DAPHNE. 



" Elle etoit de ce monde ou les plus belles choses 
Ont le pire destin ; 
Et, rose, elle a vecu ce que vive les roses, 
L' espace d' un matin." m ih h 

The winds are hush'd ; but the chill air of night 
Pervades my shivering frame. The crisped leaves 
Which late in verdant pride wav'd to the breeze 
In undulations soft, and by the blast 
But now where whirled from the neighboring wood. 
Have cumber'd all my solitary paths. 
Softly I tread the mazy labyrinth, lest 
The rustling noise should interrupt the deep 
And fearful stillness here. 'Tis thus amid 
The forest wilds, when Autumn crowns, as now, 
The plenteous year, and the gay antler'd herds 
Look sleek, the unwearied hunter threads his way. 
And, with a step cautious as Guilt, pursues 
The timid chase. But what shall I alarm 
In these deserted haunts, where none of choice 



54 

Repair, save those whom wretchedness has taught 

After long toil to seek for refuge here. 

The mole has burrow'd deep, and heeds me not ; 

The bat has ta'en his headlong flight in search 

Of gentler skies, or nestles in some lone 

And cover'd nook ; while at my feet sleep those 

Whom not the crash of worlds shall wake again f 

Ha ! is it so ? and wilt not thou awake 

My dear, lamented Daphne ? Shall that form, 

That form so heavenly fair, ne'er bloom again ? 

Thy dust, alas ! is not commingled here 

With kindred dust ; but doth it aught avail ? 

Lo ! where repose the long forgotten race, 

The lengthen'd line of thy progenitors : 

Whilst thou, far amid southern climes, beneath 

The tam'rind and the orange tree, art laid, 

Fit resting place for thee ! No winter there 

Shivers the glories of the circling year. 

Nor tarnishes the lustre of the groves : 

Thy fav'rite myrtle there can never die ; 

There every gale wafts perfumes o'er thy grave ! 

Ah why, such scenes among, should man alone 

Then fade ? Nature with lavish hand adorns 

The wild, and bids the flowers perpetual bloom ; 



55 

But there to man a longer date denies, 
Nay, warns him thence before his 'custom'd timfe. 
And such, my Daphne, was thy cruel doom ! 
And worse — For thou wast fated twice to die — 
And twice in the full vernal bloom of youth — 
The cup at parting bitterer than Death's ! 
How wast thou torn, all lovely as thou wert. 
And beauteous too as Maia's self when flush'd 
By genial beams of the young sun, from arms 
Unwilling to be loos'd from thine ! How flow'd 
Thy tears, when the fond ties which bound thee here 
Were sundered ! How did thy young heart throb 
When to my own for the last time 'twas press'd ! 
But years since that sad parting have flown by ; 
And years have flown since thou wast rapt to heaven ! 
Yet how can I forget, or thou forgive ? 
True thou didst oft invite me to thy home, 
Didst beckon me amid thy fragrant groves, 
To feed me on thy golden fruits, and breathe 
Thy incens'd air ; but, such my wayward mood, 
I spurn'd the call (though sweeter not than thine 
An angel's voice) or thought, as worldings do, 
Another time to come. Thus wisdom's fool'd ; 
And thus was I infatuated too. 



56 

My Daphne ! art thou then forever fled ! 
O, once again appear as thou wast wont ; 
Even in my dreams I see thee smile ; and wakings 
Oft pay thee with my late repentant tears. 
Tears are thy due — ah ! doubly due from one 
On whom thy infant eyes shed beams of love— * 
Whom thou remember'dst to thy latest breath ( 



EUGENIO. 

EuGENio ! say, canst thou remember whea 
These arms encircled thy dear infant form ? 
Canst thou recal the time when on my knees 
Thou lov'dst to slumber ? where, press'd to my heart, 
Thou wert secure from dangers and alarm ; 
And where I've oft survey'd thy angel face, 
And breath'd a prayer for thee ? Perchance thou 

canst not. 
But thou canst tell how many a frolic hour 
Together we have pass'd in after days. 
In that soft age, when reason first begins 
To dawn, and the young heart beats quick, and joy 
Sparkles and overflows, how often have 
Thy little feet pursued me, while with coy 
And quicken'd step I still contriv'd to elude 
Thy tender grasp. O yes ; and thou mayest well 
Remember too a thousand little arts 
Of thine to cheat the rosy-footed Hours, 
Who, smiling, would not even be detain'd 
By thee. Nor wilt thou soon forget, my lov'd one, 
How oft I've kiss'd away thy tears, when some 



58 

Mischance had caus'd them from their little founts 
To gush, and course adown thy blooming cheeks. 
And then, what joys were those of riper time ! 
In thy lov'd boyhood, when to my fond eye 
Thou seem'dst §. young and feather'd Mercury, 
How often have we scal'd the lofty hills, 
To gaze upon the world below ! how oft 
Together have we trac'd the sinuous stream, 
And cull'd the flowers which deck'd its banks, or 

troU'd, 
With cautious hand, the slender line, to win 
From their lov'd element the playful minnow, 
Gay perch, or trout superb thick spangled o'er 
With gold and purple. Oft hast thou thyself 
Dwelt with delight upon thy ' hair breadth 'scapes,' 
Thy prowess, and thy feats of wondrous skill, 
Which mark'd in strong-drawn lines thy boyhood's 

prime. 
Ah ! why wilt thou not listen now — say why 
Dost thou not smile to hear the tale which pleas'd 
Thee once, nay, pleas'd a thousand, thousand times, 
My dear Eugenio ! Even in later age. 
Amid thy manlier sports, the sports of youth, 
I've heard thee oft recur to the soft joys. 



59 

That fiU'd thy nectar'd cup of life, nor left 
Unsatisfied a wish. But thy young days, 
Alas for me, for thee^ fond boy, are now 
Forever fled ! and, Oh ! how shall I tell 
The grievous truth — how with a bursting heart 
Shall I a fatal secret dare divulge ? — 
Thy lovelier youth, like the soft thistle's down, 
Which the rude wind unpitying sweeps along, 
Is fleeting too away ! No more I trace 
Thy darling feet — no more that eye of thine^ 
Reflecting soft yon heavenly azure field, 
Bespeaks thy inward joy — no more thy cheek 
(As Hebe's soft) vies with the opening rose, 
But ever and anon a burnins; blush 
Mournful reveals the foe that riots there ; 
And as I mark the spoiler at his work. 
With streaming tears I raise my eyes to Heaven, 
And fervent pray his victim yet may 'scape. 
Oh, youth belov'd ! oh, dearer to my soul 
Than all man deems most precious in the world, 
How shall I part from thee ! say where, ah, where, 
When thou art gone, shall I e'er find a face 
Glowing like thine with radiant truth ? where find 
A heart so pure ? a mind so bright, so rich^ 



60 

So early rich in wisdom's lore ? Alas t 
Must thou be thus cut down — thus, like a flowV 
Rude sever'd from its stalk, be strewn upon 
The arid plain, and left to wither there ! 
See, pitying Heaven — thy own fair work behold^ 
Awhile 'mid scenes terrestrial let it bloom, 
To glad the eye, and shew how within forms 
Of clay a heavenly spirit is conceal'd. 
But no, it cannot, must not be — thy fate. 
Beloved youth, is seal'd ! Around thee mists 
And clouds fast gather ; and Death's angel dark 
Is hovering near to bear thee to his drear 
Domain. And must thou go alone ? shall I 
Be left to dew with tears thy mournful hearse — 
To strew thy grave with flowers — and twine for thee 
The wreath funereal, the sad cypress wreath ! 
Ah ! rather let me go with thee — with thee 
Seek the cold realms of death, and bury all 
My sorrows there. But there thou wilt not stay! 
Then take, oh take me with thee to a world 
Where sorrow is not known ; where love and joy 
Perpetual reign : and where a smiling band, 
Lov'd, lost Eugenio, thy coming wait, 
To crown thee with their amaranthine flowers. 



ALPHONSO. 



" He must not sink^ 
" Without the meed of some melodious tear.''^ 

The howling wind, startling the dull cold ear 
Of midnight, mournful vibrates in my own, 
And with appalling fears unmans the soul. 
O Death ! why, in an hour so rude, dost thou 
Obtrude thy spectral form, and fill the mind 
With dark imaginings ? Is't not enough 
That we incontinent obey thy call, 
And cower beneath thy frown, but thou must mock 
Us still with shadows, hideous as thyself? 
Alas, how wondrous is our fate ! Though heirs 
Of life — immortal life ! we fade, and die, 
And mingle with the dust. What horrour in 
The thought ! ev'n with the hope, which secret lurks 
Within the breast, that Heaven will ope its gates 
To us, what doubts and fears the soul oppress ! 
And, oh, how soon are we forgot ! forgot 
Ere the bright furze can blossom o'er our graves ! 



62 

And then, to leave this goodly scene — to be 
Debarr'd the sight of the blest heavens — to feel 
No more the balmy zephyr — and amid 
The west to view the sinking sun, in floods 
Of gold depart, never to rise again ! 
Oh, my sad soul ! how wilt thou meet that hour ?— 
But is this world so dear ? I fain would know — 
And is it too so hard for us to die ? 
Shade of my lov'd Alphonso ! speak, ah, speak ! 
For earth had charms for thee, if it have charms 
For any. Yes, blest as thou wast — at once 
By virtue, fortune, friends ! It well had wean'd 
Thee from the skies. Yet thou could'st willing leave 
Them all — nay, dearer than all these — the lov'd 
Companion of thy youth, and blooming boy, 
Could'st leave to wrap thee in thy dusky shroud ! 
Nor didst thou go with faltering step, and heart 
Wild throbbing with alarms. Thy manly soul, 
As erst on the rude ocean-wave, when earth 
And skies tumultuous warr'd, could meet the king 
Of terrors undismay'd, though worlds should quake 
And crumble into dust ! Full long he stood 
Waving his shadowy sceptre o'er thy couch, 
As if in doubt to strike : but as thou smil'dst 



\ 



63 

{For in thy agonies a smile was seen f) 
He aim'd malignant the unerring shaft ! 
Swift as that shaft, thy lofty head to earth 
Was bow'd. And now upon the breezy hill 
Thou sleep'st ! 'Twas there, in happier times, we oft 
Had stood, and view'd the sylvan world below. 
With its bright stream that glisten'd thro' the leaves, 
(All then thine own !)-'twas there, in mournful mood, 
Oppress'd with dark forebodings of thy doom. 
Thou didst confess thy pleasure to repose : — 
" Here let me peaceful rest," said'st thou, " when 

death 
" Upon a day, haply not far, shall caU 
" Me hence : but be it soon or late, my friend, 
" Here let me rest ! no marble shall reveal 
" My name, or lineage : the sun alone, 
" As down he sinks beneath yon purple hills, 
" Shall gild my humble grave !" Prophetic dream, 
Alas ! thou too hast sunk, Alphonso ! Yet, 
Anon, like the bright Regent of the day, 
Shalt lift thy head, and sparkle in the skies. 



SPRING. 



The Autumn, to the poet's soul, is full 
Of inspiration. All that we behold 
Above, around — all, to the mournful muse, 
In language eloquent, foretels the fate 
Of man ! But when admonish'd by the sight 
Of nature in her state of decadence — 
And when the roar of winds, which usher in 
The maddening tempest, swells upon the ear — 
The pensive mind with awe is struck, or starts 
At thought of the extinction of man's hopes. 
Not such the rosy Spring ! The infant year 
Is full of hope, and love, and joy. The air, 
Pure and attenuated, seems like breath 
Of heaven, where angels might disport, and live. 
The various sky, noAv a clear azure vault, 
And now with silvery clouds adorn'd, that yield 
Warm drops prelusive of the genial show'r, 
Is beautiful. The sun himself looks bright 
In youthful charms, and renovated strength. 



63> 

Swift from the bosom of the orient wave 
He rises, shaking his resplendent locks, 
And mounts the lofty sky — then ardent there 
Pursues the ethereal course — and then adown 
The west precipitate he speeds, and wraps 
Him in a golden cloud. But thou, O earth. 
With what transcendent beauty art thou deck'd ! 
The wide extended plain — the mountain side- 
Each hill-top — every rocky height is clothed 
With pristine verdure, which the eye drinks in 
Insatiate ; while, aloft, of every hue. 
Though verd'rous still, the tow'ring oak, the pine 
Erect, the elm fantastic, maple bright 
And flexile willow — with ten thousand else 
AU spangled o'er (a wUderness of sweets !) 
Wave to the kissing breeze, and seem to joy 
In the embrace. Then Flora art thou seen 
In all thy loveliness ! Thy crown a wreath 
Of shadowing roses, and thy sceptre meek, 
The lilly of the vale ; forth o'er the fields 
Alighting from a fragrant cloud, thou goest. 
All nature smiles at thy approach ; beneath 
Thy feet, in every bosky dell, amid 

The shade and in the eye of day, spring up 
9 



6Q 

XJnnumber'd flowers, reflecting in their tints 
The hues of heaven ; while every zephyr near 
Bears on his wings their perfumes. Then the world 
Is full of music. Myriads throng the air, 
Light as the air itself, eluding sight, 
Yet to the conscious ear that eager lists 
The buz of joy, not distant. Myriads too, 
Warbling their wood-notes wild, within the groves 
Rejoice, and to the tell-tale echo give 
Their notes of love. While 'mid the vale, and o'er 
The verdant downs, the low of gath'ring herds 
And bleat of flocks innumerous, all conspire 
To swell the song of joy, resounding wide 
Through the whole earth, and up to heaven itself! 
But thou, O man ! the lord of this new world, 
How doth thy soul exult amid the scene ! 
Not lovelier once when rising from the waves, 
Flush'd with primeval beauty, seem'd the nymph 
Of heavenly birth, to thy delighted eye. 
Than now the new-born earth, nor less intense 
The raptures which thou feel'st. For love still reigns, 
Still kindles round thy heart his golden fires, 
And lifts thy soul to heaven. Bright effluence 
From the pure source of goodness infinite, 



67 



O may it long pervade a happy world ! 
Long in the breast of favour'd man awake 
A guiltless transport — ^long attune his voice 
To noblest strains of gratitude and praise i 



NOTES. 



Lo ! here upon the sacred hill^ where sleeps 
The great Musaus, hard of old renown'd, 
Lo here amid the City's bounds I stand. 

Note 1— Page 5. 
The history, antiquities, and topography, of Athens, are 
too familiar to every one, to require any particular notice 
in this place. In order that the reader may have some 
definite idea of the relative positions of the objects as they 
are successively described in the poem, he must imagine 
himself placed for a moment upon the summit of the Mu- 
saeum hill, the station from which the Panorama of that 
celebrated city was taken. Those who had the good for- 
tune to see that splendid picture, will recollect that the ob- 
jects in the foreground were chiefly of a rural and pasto- 
ral description. The declivities of the Musasum hill (once 
included within the walls of Athens) were there represent- 
ed, as they often are in fact, covered with flocks : in the 
midst of which shepherds were seen here and there reclin- 
ing upon the turf, or groups of Greek females were observ- 
ed to be engaged in dancing the Romaika, a favourite diver- 
sion, which is supposed to bear a near resemblance to a 
dance of the Ancient Greeks. The spectator, finding him- 
self surrounded by these pleasing objects, is for a moment 
inclined to doubt whether he is not imposed upon ; for he 
beholds no magnificent city like that which he had, perhaps, 
erected in his imagination, and which he had come to view. 
But he soon perceives the lofty rock of the Acropolis, with 
its ramparts and ruins j and towering above all these, he 



70 



beholds the magnificent vestiges of the Parthenon. He now 
no longer doubts ; Athens, not as it was, but as it now is, 
appears before him. After gazing with a sort of feverish 
delight upon these striking monuments, his attention is next 
directed to the natural beauties of the place, and of the sur- 
rounding country. But as soon as the observer has taken 
a glance of the distant scenery, his eye is again attracted 
towards the favourite objects in the picture — the citadel 
and plain of Athens, and the architectural remains of an- 
cient grandeur thinly dispersed over them. On these the 
eye reposes with a melancholy pleasure ; and while the 
mind is led back to the contemplation of the ages of glory, 
a glow of indignation is felt at the miserable degradation of 
that seat of learning and of art. Such was the Panorama ; 
such now is Athens ; and such the emotions which the view 
of each would excite in the spectator. It will readily be 
perceived that my little performance is a mere Panoramic 
sketch — not a finished picture ; which, indeed, I should in 
vain have attempted. Still less can 1 flatter myself that I 
have been able to identify my own feelings with those of 
the fortunate man who has actually traced the banks of the 
Ilissus, and its sister stream, or who has knelt within the sa- 
cred precincts of the Parthenon. 

As the admirable picture which I have so faintly copied, 
seems to have passed into oblivion, I think it will not be 
uninteresting to a portion of the community to know how 
faithful a transcript it was considered to be of the actual 
scenery of Athens — how much enthusiasm it was expected 
to awaken — and to whose munificence we were indebted for 
the inestimable treasure. I therefore transcribe from an 
old number of the Boston Daily Advertiser, the following 
brief history of the 

Panorama of Athens. 

" It is with the greatest satisfaction that we have been 



71 



informed that this celebrated work of art is likely soon to 
reach our country. After having been the object of uni- 
versal admiration in England, for the last year, it was 
lately purchased in London by Theodore Lyman, jun. Esq. 
and is expected by the first convenient opportunity. Be- 
sides the reputation which it enjoyed in London of being 
the best executed of the famous panoramas of Barker, its 
value as a perfect representation of the city and plain of 
Athens was attested by the numerous English travellers in 
Greece, who are well known to have pronounced in the 
most favourable manner upon it. It was painted by Messrs. 
Barker and Burford, of London, after drawings taken from 
the most elevated part of the Museum Hill by Signor Po- 
mardi, a Roman artist, whom Mr. Dodweil employed on 
his travels in Greece. The same drawings are now issu- 
ing, with Mr. Dodwell's Travels, from the London press. 
The point of view chosen was selected by Mr. Dodweil as 
being that from which all the interesting and celebrated 
objects in the vicinity of Athens may be seen. Besides 
Mr. Dodwell's drawings, the Panorama was enriched by 
communications from Mr. Cockerel!, another celebrated 
English traveller in Greece, who also furnished the draw- 
ings from life for the human figures introduced into the 
painting. Among the various public and private testimo- 
nies to its merit and beauty, it was enthusiastically pro- 
nounced by our countryman Mr. West (the President of 
the Royal Academy) to be the finest representation which 
the pencil of man has produced. So valuable was it 
thought for its connexion with classical antiquity, that the 
Universities of Cambridge and Oxford in England both 
made efforts to acquire it. It is therefore with the high- 
est satisfaction that we are enabled to inform the public, 
that it has been purchased by Mr. Lyman, and that it is 
intended by him as a present to the University of Cam- 



72 

bridge. We congratulate the public on this new and dis- 
tinguished example of liberality to our University ; and 
rejoice that so excellent an appropriation is to be made of 
this celebrated and classical performance. It would cer- 
tainly be impossible to select any other place so suitable 
as a distinguished literary institution, to receive this faith- 
ful transcript of the ruins and present state of the city 
which the world of letters must ever regard as its metro- 
polis : and we are sure that we do but anticipate the public 
feeling, in announcing this act of liberality with the warm- 
est terms of applause." 



Yet thine, Euripides! 
Thine ■was the dearest boast. 

Note 2— Page 11. 

" Amidst this dark and dreadful scene of cruelty and re- 
venge, we must not omit to mention one singular example 
of humanity, which broke forth like a meteor in the gloom 
of a nocturnal tempest. The Syracusans, who could punish 
their helpless captives with such unrelenting severity, had 
often melted into tears at the affecting strains of Euripides; 
an Athenian poet, who had learned in the Socratic school 
to adorn the lessons of philosophy with ihe charms of fancy, 
and who was regarded by the taste of his contemporaries, 
as he still is by many enlightened judges, as the most tender 
and pathetic, the most philosophical and instructive, of all 
tragic writers. The pleasure which the Syracusans had 
derived from his inimitable poetry, made them long to hear 
it rUhearsed by the flexible voices and harmonious pronun- 
ciation of the Athenians, so unlike, and so superior, to the 
rudeness and asperity of their own Doric dialect. They 
desired their captives to repeat the plaintive scene? of their 
favourite bard. The captives obeyed ; and^ affecting to re- 



73 

present the woes of ancient kings and heroes, they too 
faithfully expressed their own. Their taste and sensibility 
endeared them to the Syracusans, who released their bonds, 
received them with kindness into their families, and, after 
treating them with all the honourable distinctions of ancient 
hospitality, restored them to their longing and afflicted coun- 
try, as a small but precious wreck of the most formidable 
armament that had ever sailed from a Grecian harbour. At 
their return to Athens, the grateful captives walked in so- 
lemn procession to the house of Euripides, whom they hail- 
ed as their deliverer from slavery and death. This ac- 
knowledgment, infinitely more honourable than all the 
crowns and splendour that ever surrounded the person, and 
even than all the altars and temples that ever adorned the 
memory, of a poet, must have transported Euripides with 
the second triumph which the heart of man can feel. He 
would have enjoyed the first, if his countrymen had owed 
to his virtues the tribute which they paid to his talents ; 
and if, instead of the beauty and elegance of his verses, 
they had been saved by his probity, his courage, or his pa- 
triotism ; qualities which, still more than genius and fancy, 
constitute the real excellence and dignity of human nature." 

Gillies^ Hist, of Greece. 

Solon ! once by Lydia's throneless king, 
Cowering beneath the Persian despoCs frown., 
Pronounc''d wisest of men ! — 

Note 3— Page 12. 

*' An immense pile of wood and other combustibles were 
erected in the most spacious part of the city. The mise- 
rable victims, bound hand and foot, were placed on the top 
of the pyre. Cyrus, surrounded by his generals, witnessed 
the dreadful spectacle, either from an abominable principle 
10 



74 



of superstition, if he had bound himself by a vow to sacri- 
fice Croesus as the first fruits of the Lydian victory, or from 
a motive of curiosity, equally cruel and impious, to try 
whether Croesus, who had so mag'nificentiy adorned the 
temples, and enriched the ministers, of the gods, would be 
helped in time of need by the miraculous interposition of 
his much-honoured protectors. 

" Meanwhile the unfortunate Lydian, oppressed and con- 
founded by the intolerable weight of his present calamity, 
compared with the security and splendour of his former 
state, recollected his memorable conversation with the 
Athenian sage, and uttered with a deep groan the name of 
Solon. Cyrus asked, by an interpreter, " whose name he 
invoked." " ifi«," replied Crossus, emboldened by the 
prospect of certain death, " whose words ought ever to 
speak to the heart of kings." This reply not being satis- 
factory, he was commanded to explain at full length the 
subject of his thoughts. The words of a dying man are 
fitted to make an impression on the heart. Those of Croe- 
sus deeply affected the mind of Cyrus. The Persian con- 
sidered the speech of Solon as addressed to himself. He 
repented of his intended cruelty towards an unfortunate 
prince, who had formerly enjoyed all the pomp of prospe- 
rity, and, dreading the concealed vengeance that might 
lurk in vhe bosom of Fate, gave orders that the pyre 
should be extinguished." — Ibid. 



Thou 
Wast fain to shed ' some natural tears'' at sight 
So grievous. — 

Note 4— Page 15. 
" When the king beheld all the Hellespont crowded 
with ships, and all the shore, with the plains of Abydos, 



75 



covered with his troops, he at first congratulated himself 
as happy, but he afterwards burst into tears." 

Beloe's Herodotus. 
What subject for reflection is there not in the above 
simple and unadorned fact ! But it has received various 
glosses. Thus Glover — 

" As down 
Th' immeasurable ranks his sight was lost, 
A momentary gloom o'ercast his mind ; 
While this reflection fill'd his eyes with tears — 
That, soon as time a hundred years had told, 
Not one among those millions should survive. 
Whence, to obscure thy pride, arose that cloud ? 
Was it that once humanity could touch 
A tyrant's heart ? Or rather did thy soul 
Repine, O Xerxes, at the bitter thought 
That all thy pow'r was mortal ?" 

Leonidas : Book iv. 



There Paros, dear to art^ his lofty brow 

Shadowy amid the emerald sea erects ; 

Revealing to the curious eye alone 

His dazzling caves, &lc. 

Note 5— Page 17. 
" Faros was a rich and powerful island, and well known 
in ancient times for its famous marble, which was always 
used by the best statuaries. The best quarries were those 
of Marpesus, a mountain where still caverns of the most 
extraordinary depth are seen by modern travellers, and 
admired as the sources from whence the Labyrinth of 
Egypt and the porticoes of Greece received their splen- 
dour. According to Pliny, the quarries were so uncom- 
monly deep, that in the clearest weather the vyorkmen 



76 



were obliged to use lamps, from which circumstance the 
Greeks have called the marble Lychnites, worked by the 
light of lamps. 

" The Parian marbles, perhaps better known by the 
appellation o( Arundelian, were engraved in this island in 
capital letters, B. C. 264, and, as a valuable chronicle, 
preserved the most celebrated epochas of Greece from the 
year 1582 B. C. These marbles now belong to the Uni- 
versity of Oxford, to which they were presented by the 
Earl of Arundel." Lempriere. 

And thou the marvel of each wondering age, 
At once the shame and glory of the world, 
Majestic Parthenon ! 

Note 6— Page 20. 

The temple of Minerva, commonly called the Parthenon, 
was erected during the administration of Pericles, about 
four hundred and thirty five years before the Christian era. 
It was nearly entire in the year 1687, when the Venetians, 
under Morosini, having besieged the citadel, this with 
many other noble monuments of the ancients suffered irre- 
parable injury. A part of the temple of Minerva had been 
converted into a powder room; and a red hot ball having 
penetrated the roof, a destructive explosion was the conse- 
quence. This may be termed the fatal era of the Parthe- 
non ; for the Venetians were only the precursors of other 
depredators and destroyers, among whom was a British no- 
bleman, who, with an ostensible love for the arts, has done 
much towards the demolition of an edifice which had been 
the admiration of all preceding times, and which, even in 
ruins, is one of the proudest monuments of human genius. 

If the Greeks, in spite ofthe frowns of power, and the apa- 
thy of mankind, should be able to achieve their indepen- 



77 



dence, one of the early acts of their government should he 
to decree the restoration of the Parthenon. I do not mean 
that thej should begin to labour upon it in that state of ex- 
haustion in which they must be left after their sanguinary, 
but glorious struggle ; yet I should hope that the project 
would be steadily kept in view. It is to be presumed, that 
in this event, the British Parliament would send back the 
sculptures of Phidias, and that the king of France would 
follow the laudable example. Every block should be re- 
placed. The inscription (as translated) may then read 
thus : — 

ERECTED BY PERICLES. 

DEFACED AND VIOLATED BY THE BARBARIANS. 

RESTORED 

BY THE PEOPLE OF GREECE. 



That precious fane, the Goths of every age, 

The Christian and the Infidel, had spar''d ; 

For thee alone to mar the beavieous work, 

It was reserv''d. 

Note 7 — Page 21 . 
The beautiful little edifice called Pandrosus, with the 
temples of Miner\a Polias and Erechtheus (all three con- 
stituting one building, though forming in fact as many 
different temples) and the majestic pillars of the Parthe- 
non, comprehend the principal remains of ancient gran- 
deur upon the Acropolis. The roof of the portico of the 
temple of Pandrosus was supported by six colossal cary- 
atides, one of which Lord Elgin removed. The Greek 
inhabitants of Athens, with that acute sensibility for which 
they have always been remarkable, now imagine that they 
hear at certain times mournful sounds proceeding from the 



78 



remaining figures, as if they were lamenting the absence of 
that which was so wantonly torn away. The removal of 
the figure is much to be regretted, because it will precipi- 
tate the destruction of the building ; and because, though 
beautiful in its place, it is not, as a work of art, particu- 
larly estimable. 

1 am not surprised that lord Byron was unable to sup- 
press his indignation at the conduct of the Earl of Elgin 
and his agents. The Earl was welcome to the Ilissus, to the 
JVeptune, and to a thousand other precious fragments ; but 
no one can think of the destruction of the frieze of the 
Parthenon, without execrating the hands which were em- 
ployed in its demolition. 



Thou phrensied Gaul ! 

Note 8— Page 22. 

A Frenchman, some years ago, conceived the thought of 
transporting the temple of Theseus to France ; what infatua- 
tion ! Yet an idea of this kind was not new. We are told 
that an Earl of Bristol, in the last century, seriously medi- 
tated the removal of the beautiful little temple of the Sybil 
at Tivoli. in order that he might place it in his own park ! 
He was only restrained from committing the outrage by an 
absolute prohibition of his Holiness. 



O what a dream of horrours has been mine ! 

Note 9— Page 27. 
The following affecting appeal from the Greeks at Con- 
stantinople to their brethren in London, was first published 
in a British newspaper ; it presents a succinct account of 
the devastation of the Island of Scio, and will, by every one, 
be read with the most intense interest. The destruction 



79 

of Scio is one of the most disastrous events of modern times^ 
and is scarcely equalled in atrocity in any age of the world. 
That lovely island has always heen represented to us as the 
garden of the East — a sort of Paradise : What a frightful 
reverse ! 

Constantinople, May 22, 1822. 
" Dear and beloved Brethren and Countrymen ! — We doubt 
not, that the news contained herein must have already reach- 
ed you, and fallen like a thunderbolt on your hearts. What 
more dreadful than the knowledge that our illustrious and 
innocent countrymen — ten of them in prison here, and 
those in the Castle of Scio, ninety-five in all— universUy 
esteemed and respected, chosen and held as hostages for 
more than a year past, have at last, without a single motive, 
without even the shadow of a personal accusation against 
them, been barbarously executed ? We at first deeply la- 
mented the unmerited restraint put upon the persons of 
those now no more ; their death, ignominious and cruel, in 
the first burst of grief nearly paralyzed our faculties. Who 
can, without shuddering, read of the total ruin, the universal 
desolation, of our famed and once happy isle (Scio) ; the de- 
struction of all its inhabitants, nearly one hundred thousand, 
who, except a very few who almost miraculously escaped 
from those ill-fated shores, have fallen victims to the sword, 
to fire, hunger, and slavery — that worst of all evils ? Who 
can, without feelings of indignation, without execrating the 
perpetrators of these horrid acts, behold a whole city lately 
so flourishing, now one heap of ruins ; whole villages, in- 
numerable country seats, a prey to the flames ; our cele- 
brated school, library, hospital for the sick, hundreds of 
churches richly adorned — all, all one confused mass ofsmok- 
ing rubbish ! Our island, lately so much frequented by 
Europeans, and more especially by English families of the 
first rank, will now have only her ashes to show the pass- 



80 



ing stranger. Nor is this, so dreadful in itself, the most dire 
of our calamites. The slavery of so many respectable wo- 
men, young people, and children of both sexes, sent off to 
different parts of Asia — the markets of this city and Smyrna, 
filled with women and young people of the first rank; and 
who have received the best education ! What can be more 
dreadful than this? Happy, thrice happy those, whom the 
steel of the assassin has snatched from scenes so harrowing 
to the feelings; how miserable those still suffered to exist, 
who see the sufferings, hear the cries and piteous accents 
of their wives, children, and relatives, and are witnesses to 
the barbarous treatment this devoted and innocent people 
receive, from the wretches who have them in their power ! 
What can be laid to our charge ? We poor Sciots, who 
from the beginning have remained faithful, are rewarded 
with death and slavery. It is well known, as soon as the 
Porte heard of the insurrection in the Morea, and sundry 
islands of the Archipelago, it sent here a Pacha, having 
with him about three thousand troops ; the whole of the 
expenses of this garrison was defrayed by our island, which, 
in the course of about fourteen months, paid more than two 
million seven hundred thousand piasters, each according to 
his means. Besides that, the Suitan ordered a choice to be 
made of sixty of the most considerable and respectable from 
our countrymen, beginning by our Archbishop Plato, the 
elder, and other principal inhabitants. When the news of 
the invasion of the imprudent Samiotes first spread in Scio, 
the principal inhabitants waited on the Pacha to apprize 
him of it. What was his answer ? To send into the Castle, 
as hostages, some more of these innocent men, and to trans- 
port all the provisions out ofthe city into the citadel, leav- 
ing none whatever for the poor inhabitants of the city, who 
-were so numerous. A month after, when the Samiotes land- 
ed, the Pacha sent some ofthe hostages, with several Turks, 



81 



to prevail on the Samiotes to evacuate the island — but they 
imprudently resolved to advance, and told these ministers 
of peace, that they would sooner put them to death than do 
so. The Pacha then shut himself up in the Castle with all 
the military, taking with him all the hostages. It was un- 
derstood, that a number of the peasantry had joined the Sa- 
miotes ; they were in a manner forced to it, being appre- 
hensive of the Samiotes themselves, and they were only 
armed with sticks and staves. Eleven days after, the Turk- 
ish fleet arrived at the island, and landed fifteen thousand 
soldiers, who, joined by the three thousand in the Castle, 
being unable to attack and defeat the three thousand Sa- 
miotes, used their weapons against the innocent and disarm- 
ed inhabitants, and turned their fury against women and 
children, killing, burning, and taking into slavery, all the in- 
habitants of the place; the men they slaughtered, the wo- 
men and children they brutally treated, and huddled together 
in one of the large squares, which contained several hun- 
dred of the most respectable families ; they have not left a 
stone upon a stone — all destroyed, all ruined ! It would fill 
volumes to record the different scenes of horror which the 
ruffians were guilty of — humanity shudders at it. But this 
universal desolation had not yet satisfied the blood-thirsty 
followers of Mahommed; they had heaped upon their 
trembling and tender victims all the bitterness of their fa- 
naticism : it remained for them to wreak their vengeance up- 
on their illustrious hostages — men who had always followed 
the paths of rectitude in their commercial transactions — 
whose relations were established in almost every com- 
mercial city in the known world — men, innocent of any 
machination against the Turkish government, and who 
could not, even if they would, have been participators in the 
rising of the island, since they had been fourteen months 
under the grasp of the Turkish satrap. Ten of these were 
11 



82 



at Constantinople, the remainder at Scio. Lord Strangford 
made strenuous efforts to save them — neglected no remon- 
strances — evinced the greatest ardor in the cause of suffer- 
ing innocence, and thought he had succeeded in sheltering 
them from their impending fate, having obtained a promise 
from the Porte that no harm should be done them, when it 
suddenly gave orders for their execution. The ten in 
Constantinople were beheaded, and the eighty-five in Scio 
were hung outside of the Castle, in that very square where 
so many of the slaves were placed, in sight of the Turkish 
fleet, who had their decks covered with Greek slaves. 
Oh ! how the heart sickens at such refinement of cruelty, 
and turns with horror from the malice that could take de- 
light in deriding the mental agony of the innocent sufferers 
in this tragic scene ! What a number of wives were forced 
to be spectators of the cruel death of the husbands of their 
affections, to see at the same time their suckling babes, torn 
from their breasts, thus bereft at once of their support and 
hopes ! Many, driven to despair by this barbarous usage, 
threw themselves into the sea, others stabbed themselves 
to prevent the loss of honour, to them worse than death, to 
which they were every moment exposed from the barba- 
rians. But, alas ! let us draw a veil over those who have 
thus sunk untimely into the grave — let us not harrow up 
your souls with the recital of such atrocities — their suffer- 
ings are over, and their felicity, let us hope, begun. 

It is now time to turn your sympathy towards the unfor- 
tunate survivors of the general wreck — to call, dear coun- 
trymen, your attention to the miserable, naked state of 
thousands of our Sciofs, with which the markets here, at 
Smyrna, and Scio, are glutted. Picture to yourselves chil- 
dren of the tenderest age, till now nursed with the most 
delicate attention, driven about with only a piece of cloth 
round their infant limbs, without shoes or any other cover- 



83 



ing, having nothing to live upon but a piece of bread throwa 
to them by their inhuman keepers — ill treated by them — 
sold from one to the other, and all, in this deplorable sit- 
uation, exposed to be brought up in the Mahometan religion, 
and lose sight of the precepts of our holy faith. We see 
all this ; yet, alas ! what can we do here, reduced to three 
or four, who, if found out, would also be exterminated with- 
out mercy ? What we could do, we have done ; but how 
little among so many claimants to our charity ! You, brothers, 
friends, and countrymen, are in the capital of England, the 
centre of philanthropy ; you live amongst a people always 
famed for their generous feelings towards the unfortunate, 
for their dislike to tyranny, and their support of the op- 
pressed. Beg, pray, entreat, appeal to their feelings, call 
upon them as Britons, as men, as fellow beings : it is in the 
cause of humanity, of religion ; they cannot, they will not, 
be deaf to your prayers. They will afford us, as far as lies 
in their power, the means of redeeming the captive, of aid- 
ing those families that are in a state of nudity and starvation, 
who will soon arrive in almost every port of the Mediter- 
ranean, when they have been enabled to fly from a yoke 
worse than death. We rely upon your endeavours, and still 
more upon the high character of the nation among whom 
you inhabit : thousands of hands are raised towards you to 
claim your interference in behalf of j'our oppressed country- 
men: thousands of hearts will feel grateful for your assis- 
tance. Brethren and countrymen, exert yourselves in be- 
half of humanity. 

"With tearful eye we cordially salute you, and beg you 
will pray to God for our safety. 

" YoDR Brothers and Countrymen." 

In alluding to the catastrophe of Scio, the Hon. Mr. Web- 
ster, in his late eloquent speech on the Greek question^ 



84 



speaks of it as " an indescribable enormity" — an appalling 
monument of barbarian cruelty" — " a scene," said he, " I 
shall not attempt to describe — a scene from which human 
nature shrinks shuddering away — a scene having hardly a 
parallel in the history of fallen man !" 

I cannot but indulge a hope that the speech of that great 
advocate will be immediately translated and forwarded to 
<jreece. It will be a consolation to that unhappy people 
to know that there are some magnanimous spirits among 
«s, who have the boldness to vindicate their cause, and ex- 
press a sympathy for their sufferings. The close of the 
speech is emphatic: — 

" I think it right too. Sir, not to be unseasonable in the ex- 
pression of our regard, and, as far as that goes, in a minis- 
tration of our consolation, to a long oppressed and now 
struggling people. I am not of those who would in the 
hour of utmost peril withhold such encouragement as might 
be properly and lawfully given, and when the crisis should 
be past, overwhelm the rescued sufferer with kindness and 
caresses. The Greeks address the civilized world with a 
pathos not easy to be resisted. They invoke our favour by 
more moving considerations than can well belong to the 
condition of any other people. They stretch out their arms 
to the Christian communities of the earth, beseeching them, 
by a generous recollection of their ancestors, by the consi- 
deratio i of their own desolated and ruined cities and villa- 
ges, by their wives and children, sold into an accursed sla- 
very, by their own blood, which they seem willing to pour 
out like water, by the common faith, and in the Name, 
which unites all Christians, that they would extend to them, 
at least, some token of compassionate regard." 













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